The Political Death of a Marxist

In 1989, Nanni Moretti made the film Palombella Rossa (Red Lob), and only recently was it screened in Kolkata for the very first time. Within the Indian context—particularly that of West Bengal—the film seems uncannily relevant and timely. Moretti, in truth, has always delighted in sprinkling comedy through cinema. In most of his films, he himself steps into the role of the protagonist. Though he is a familiar name in global cine-circles, his popularity is not widespread. His comedy, in many respects, invites comparison with Hollywood’s comedic traditions. Some even draw parallels with Woody Allen. Yet, Moretti is hardly a household name even in America—perhaps owing to his Marxist worldview. At the same time, the Hollywood-influenced filmmaking he employed never found full acceptance within the stylistic schools of European cinema. And yet, despite this estrangement, it is rare to encounter in the last two or three decades a film so profoundly politically correct as Palombella Rossa. Its subject is both intimate and vast: the shattering of a Marxist’s ideals and the collapse of his dream. The protagonist is named Michele. And this character of Michele—like a ghostly double or recurring motif—wanders through Moretti’s films, returning in altered forms again and again.
 
The time is the 1980s. Across Eastern Europe, Communist states under Soviet leadership are collapsing one after another. Meanwhile, in Moretti’s own Italy, Marxist political parties had taken root within a democratic framework. In this film, Moretti seeks to portray the Italian Communist imagination against the backdrop of a world in flux. The entire narrative unfolds within a game of water polo. And that game, shortly after it begins, descends into chaos. The anarchic disorder of the sport is aligned with the crumbling condition of communism’s political environment—an allegory crafted with astonishing subtlety. At times, we see the referee of the water polo match openly favoring one team, echoing the skewed biases of history. And then, from time to time, flashbacks emerge—Michele’s adolescence, the fervent days of ideological passion, the intoxication of political slogans. Sometimes it is the strained knot of his relationship with his daughter; sometimes it is the surreal interruption of Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, televised amidst the roaring pool. Thus, Michele’s political identity intermingles with his personal one—inseparable, almost fused.
 
And yet the film retains a deeply comic texture. In the very first scene, Michele is seen driving a car filled with children—a car whose rear end is absurdly twisted forward. A metaphor, as though communism itself had turned civilization’s forward movement back on itself. When the car collides with another and overturns, Michele loses consciousness. It is from this moment that the water polo game begins. Throughout, Michele voices his ideological convictions even as he bears witness to their political unraveling. Communism, capitalism, fascism—all ideologies are shown rolling helplessly in the dust of reality—until, at last, what emerges dominant is corruption. Political corruption.
 
The collapse of the Communist movement leaves Michele grief-stricken, and his inner being revolts against political degeneration. The corruption of Marxist ideals and their distorted application pains him deeply. All of this finds symbolic representation in the water polo game, where allegory and reality constantly interweave. And in the end, no political, social, or economic equality is achieved. Michele, in the final moment, misses a penalty shot. He realizes that it is not merely a missed goal—it is the death of his political self. Perhaps the people of Bengal have seldom encountered a film so politically courageous, so unflinching in portraying the death of an idealist Marxist.
 
What amazes me most is this: throughout much of the twentieth century, so much of the finest artistic labor was devoted to portraying the death of Marxism. The reason lies here: within the depths of every artistic sensibility of that century lay embedded a seed of utopian Marxism. The gross inequalities of world society, the brutal injustices of colonialism—these propelled artists, writers, philosophers into a kind of politically correct Marxist consciousness. And yet, almost all of those who were once inspired later became severe critics of regimented communism. Indeed, the greater part of twentieth-century literature and art is filled with such critiques. And yet, among our people, those artists who challenged the authoritarian tendencies of Marxism are themselves often mistaken as Marxist apostles. Such has been the narrative—manufactured, repeated, injected into the masses through the propaganda machine. Even today, we remain captives of this illusion.
 
It may also be said: if Marxism in both theory and practice has been so riddled with error, then why this endless obsession with it? The true answer is this: the absence of any correct socio-political-economic system—a vacuum that continues to haunt human civilization. That is why the question, like a ghost, returns again and again.
 
In our own state, in our own country, despite so many examples of ideology and its betrayal, films of such piercing honesty are not made. Even as the decaying political system unfolds before our eyes, it is not given artistic assessment. Instead, ideology is established upon slogans—shouting a crude story into permanence. A tale invented without impartial analysis, and yet lodged firmly in the public imagination.
 
Moretti’s film shatters that delusion. The director, with extraordinary courage, questions even his own faith. This, truly, is the supreme test of art. The greatest virtue of an artist: to rise beyond his own convictions and bring forth reality. Moretti, through this film, has achieved that difficult task—and in doing so, has created a work of art that will endure timelessly.